


Times Square and Back Again

by cranialaccessory



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, M/M, Subway Musicians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranialaccessory/pseuds/cranialaccessory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“'All right boys!” Thorin shouted, and blew a shrill note on his whistle. “And a one, and a two, and a three…” and at his signal, the musicians burst into an enthusiastic, if off-key, rendition of “Don’t Stop Believing.”</p>
<p>Bilbo couldn’t contain his groan. He could already feel a headache coming on, and had never regretted leaving his headphones home more. Normally, he would’ve suffered in silence, bearing the torment of the cacophony and trying his hardest like the rest of the passengers not to make eye contact when the oldest member of the group came around with a hat full of crumpled dollar bills. But today he had had enough."</p>
<p>Thorin and Co are not particularly good subway musicians, Gandalf is a drug dealer, and Bilbo is not really a quest person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Times Square and Back Again

Bilbo Baggins made his home in a studio apartment in Brooklyn. It wasn’t a nasty, smelly apartment with cockroaches or a tiny Manhattan studio barely large enough to fit a couch in. It was cozy and tidy and a long way out on the L train, far from the noise and excitement of the city, which was just how Bilbo liked it.

The apartment was far less tidy than usual, however, the bright Sunday morning that brought Frodo Baggins to his uncle’s door. Frodo had fetched the spare key from its (rather insecure) position under the welcome mat and let himself in.

“If it’s burglars, go away, there’s nothing worth taking,” came a mumbled shout from the pile of blankets and comforters that may have held a person underneath.

“It’s past noon, you should be up,” Frodo said, and tried to clear a space on the table, currently covered with paper plates, pizza crusts, and sticky red cups. “Your tea’s getting cold.”

With a moan and a thud Bilbo gathered himself and made his way over to the table. Frodo withdrew a bag of bagels while Bilbo brushed party detritus off a seat.

“So, it looks like your thirty-first birthday was fun.” Frodo said, setting an oversized paper cup of tea in front of his uncle.

“Twenty-eleventh birthday, please,” Bilbo said, taking a sip. “I’m far too young to be thirty-anything.”

Frodo smiled and began spreading scallion cream cheese on his everything bagel. “They do say age is just a number. It’s just, some people’s numbers are higher and therefore worse.”

Bilbo laughed, and flicked a dirty napkin at his nephew, who ably dodged it. “Keep that talk up, and I won’t tell you my big news.”

“News?” Frodo put his bagel down on a relatively unsoiled patch of tablecloth.

“Well, do you remember last year, with the incident on the subway?” Bilbo said, and selected a sesame bagel from the bag.

“Yeah, the thing with the puppet, and the scientologists, you nearly got arrested? You texted me about it.”

“Well, Frodo,” Bilbo put his rather hairy feet on the table next to the container of cream cheese; Frodo pulled it away. “I’m afraid I may not have told you the entire story…”

**Times Square and Back Again**

 

Bilbo sat on the L train and tried not to fall asleep into his book. It had been a long, dull day at the office, full of expense reports and invoices, and his head was throbbing from hours of staring at a computer screen. When he shut his eyes, he could see the Excel spreadsheets. The train car was doing little to help his state; it was crowded with commuters, and Bilbo had found himself seated across from a strange-smelling homeless man who had buried himself under piles of newspaper.

The doors swung open, and Bilbo could barely contain a groan as he saw a pair of tattooed, bearded men step onto the train, one carrying a battered trumpet and the other a ukulele. He wished he had brought his headphones, and turned back to his book – hoping that if he could read fervently enough, he wouldn’t be able to hear the music.

“Hold up, mate!” came a call from the door, and Bilbo looked up to see two younger men with instruments running for the train. One stuck the battered neck of a guitar into the door to stop it from closing, and the other wedged the door open with his body. “We’re getting on too!”

There was a disapproving rumble from the fellow passengers at this breach of subway etiquette, and Bilbo was inclined to agree with them as musician after musician filed into the already over-packed car – including one with a full-sized, upright bass. Finally, after what seemed like an age, the last musician climbed in – a broad-shouldered man with long dark hair, a beard, and a scowl.

“All right boys!” he shouted, and blew a shrill note on his whistle. “And a one, and a two, and a three…” and at his signal, the musicians burst into an enthusiastic, if off-key, rendition of “Don’t Stop Believing.”

Bilbo couldn’t contain his groan, this time. He could already feel a headache coming on, and had never regretted leaving his headphones home more. Normally, he would’ve suffered in silence, bearing the torment of the cacophony and trying his hardest like the rest of the passengers not to make eye contact when the oldest member of the group came around with a hat full of crumpled dollar bills. But today he had had enough.

“Excuse me?” Bilbo said, but his voice was lost in the howl of “In the NIIIIIGHT.”

“Excuse me!” Bilbo said, louder.

“Is there something I can do for you, sir?” the leader said, turning to look his way but not pausing in his – largely fruitless – conducting efforts.

“Would you mind keeping the noise down!” Bilbo said.

The musician looked at him like he was a rat that had crawled out from under the seats.

“I mean, if it’s not too much bother, we’re all heading home, it’s been a long day…” Bilbo stammered. He had forgotten to take into account that the musician had six inches on him, and perhaps a hundred pounds. “I don’t want any trouble…”

Any possible trouble was put on hold when the homeless man across the aisle jackknifed up with a cry of “BILBO BAGGINS!”

Bilbo jumped back with a yelp and nearly slid off his bench. Once his heartbeat had begun to slow to a less arrhythmic rate, Bilbo realized that he did in fact recognize the crumpled old man currently brushing lint off his battered blue baseball cap.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo asked, but he already knew the answer. The man sitting across from him was, without doubt, his drug dealer.

“Indeed, who else would I be?” Gandalf replied. “Bilbo, I see you’ve already met Thorin.”

“Gandalf,” said the musician, who took the older man’s hand affectionately. “I’d ask what you’re doing here, but I’m sure I don’t want to know.”

Gandalf laughed loudly, and everyone else on the train very pointedly did not pay attention to the conversation. Bilbo wished he could join them and go back to being part of the scenery.

“Your timing could not be better, Thorin,” Gandalf said with a grin. “I have found the newest member of your company!” He swept his hand towards Bilbo. “Mister Bilbo Baggins, burglar extraordinaire.”

“Me?” Bilbo squeaked.

“Yes, you, how many Bilbos do you know?” Gandalf huffed. “You are just the person to assist Thorin on his quest.”

“Quest, no, no, no,” Bilbo said. “I don’t play video games, or Dungeons and Dragons.”

“This is no video game,” Thorin said. “Have you ever passed through Times Square, between the hours of 10 AM and 8 PM on Saturdays, Sundays, Tuesdays and Thursdays?”

“Um, probably?”

“Well then, you have doubtless seen my company perform. For three long years now, we have entertained all, from tourist to commuters.” A dark expression crossed his face. “But not two weeks past, our spot was taken from us, by the foul deceiver Smaug.”

“He’s smug?”

“No, his name is Smaug. It’s Czech, or something. And he does this weird, postmodern performance art with a dragon puppet,” the young, blond musician with a guitar interjected, and waved his hands vaguely to indicate postmodern-ness. “It’s terrible, really.”

“But now the time has come for us to return to our performance space, and regain what was taken from us.” Thorin continued.

“Oh, well, that sounds very nice.” Bilbo said, politely. “I wish you good luck.”

“Nonsense,” said Gandalf, placing a hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. “Thorin and his company could use your help. It would be churlish not to go with them.”

“What, no, I have work tomorrow, and laundry to get done,” Bilbo stammered, “and I wouldn’t be any use, really.”

“I must agree,” Thorin said. “The subway musician’s life is fraught with perils. He would be more hindrance than help.”

“Does he play an instrument?” the large man with the bass interjected. “Not much use if he can’t play an instrument.”

“Looks like he might be able to manage Guitar Hero,” another musician added, laughing.

“He doesn’t look like any burglar I’ve ever seen, either,” said a bald man with a tattoo on his head. “We need someone who can sneak past Smaug and steal his dragon, not stop to appreciate the show.”

“He seems more like an accountant than a musician, and certainly not a burglar,” Thorin said.

“It’s really about half technical support, half accounting…” Bilbo muttered, but was interrupted by Gandalf.

“Thorin Oakenstein!” Gandalf bellowed. “You asked me for my advice, and now you’re ignoring it!” He reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out a slightly crumpled joint. “That’s really disrespectful.” He lit the tip of the joint and puffed it to life, to the murmured moans and objections of the fellow passengers. “If you leave him behind, you will regret it. Trust me.”

“Excuse me, did you say Thorin Oakenstein?” Bilbo broke in. “As in, the Thorin Oakenstein?”

“What of it?” Thorin said, waving Gandalf’s smoke away from his face. The other passengers had largely abandoned the car by now, the combination of “music,” periodic shouting, and pot finally scaring them off.

“Well, wow, it’s just, Erebor was my favorite band in college,” Bilbo said, looking up at the musician. It was easy to see why he hadn’t recognized him – he looked older, hairier, and wearier than he had in the poster Bilbo had had hanging above his bed all through junior and senior year, though his piercing eyes were the same. “I saw you guys play at Mines of Moria, you were amazing.”

Thorin stared at Bilbo, who blushed and decided not to ever, ever mention the poster.

“See, Thorin, you have more in common than you might think!” Gandalf said. “I have a way with these sort of things.”

“It shows nothing, other than the fact that the halfling has poor taste.” Thorin sighed. “If he wishes, he may accompany us. But I will make no allowances for him. The route we travel is long and difficult.”

“It’s not that hard to get to Times Square, you know,” one of the other musicians interrupted, a short man in an odd hat and a wool poncho. “Half the trains in the city go there, Thorin’s just bad at directions….”

“Enough, Bofur,” Thorin said, and lifted his guitar case. “This is our stop. Bilbo can come or go, it does not matter to me.” As he spoke, the train rolled to a stop, and Thorin swept through the doors when they opened. The musicians followed him with startling speed, until Bilbo found himself alone in the car with Gandalf.

“You should come, Bilbo,” Gandalf said, simply and sincerely. “When was the last time you had an adventure?”

Bilbo didn’t reply, and Gandalf stepped through the doors. The car seemed empty with the loud, bumbling musicians gone. It was peaceful, and restful, and quiet. Bilbo contemplated heading home, starting the wash, settling in with his Lean Cuisine, and watching Netflix. It was very quiet, indeed.

“WAIT!” Bilbo shouted, and lunged for the door. The doors shut with a cheery jingle, but Bilbo thrust his hand between them, and yelped when they slammed shut on it and bounced back open. He struggled through them, barely getting his messenger bag through before they slammed shut once more.

Bilbo looked around and saw the mass of musicians struggling to get the upright bass up the last of the stairs at the end of the platform.

“Bilbo! Splendid,” Gandalf said with a smile, and waved him over. Thorin merely acknowledged him with a nod.

“Make haste, we must make for the downtown 6 before nightfall.”

Bilbo bent over to lend a hand with the bass, but the musician with the poncho and hat waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it, we’ve got it,” he said, and hauled it up the last few steps with a groan, set it down on the ground, and held out his hand. “The name’s Bofur.”

“Bilbo, it’s a pleasure,” Bilbo said, shaking his hand. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Not for me, I play the panpipes,” Bofur said, gesturing at the wooden instrument around his neck. “Easy to transport. Not like Bombur’s thrice-damned monstrosity,” he gestured at the battered and careworn bass.

“A strong bass line is vital for any song,” a tall fat man Bilbo assumed was Bombur responded. “Panpipes are less so.”

“So, how did you get involved with this, er, enterprise?” Bilbo asked his companion, as they headed off to the platform.

“The Company?” Bofur considered for an instant. “Well, I’ve been a street musician for as long as I’ve been in the city. I used to play with some friends, for an Andean pipe band. It wasn’t bad work, but one day, we set up next to Thorin’s crew, and between the drinking, and the heckling, and the swearing, their lot seemed like they were having more fun.” He shrugged. “I asked Thorin if I could join, and that was that.”

“It’s hard to imagine Thorin being that easy-going.”

“I know how it seems, but he’s not a bad guy, really,” Bofur said. “He just takes this all very seriously. More seriously than he has to, but that’s just his way, since he lost Erebor…” Bofur trailed off. “But the rest of the gang are great, too.”

“There sure are very many of you…” Bilbo said in a way he hoped sounded polite.

Bofur chuckled. “Can’t argue with that. In the start, it was just Thorin and Balin, over there,” he said, gesturing at the old man who had collected money. “Balin was a roadie for Erebor, back in the day, and they stuck together. Turns out his brother, Dwalin, was friends with Thorin way back, so he came along too. He plays the drums, mostly.” Bofur settled back with the air of a man reciting a well-remembered list.

“You already know Bombur, on bass. Then there’s Gloin, he plays the sax, and Oin, he’s near deaf, but that doesn’t stop him from trying the trumpet. Bifur doesn’t speak any language I’ve ever heard, but he plays a mean ukelele. Clarinet is Dori, keyboard is Nori, and Ori wouldn’t stop tagging along so we gave him a harmonica.”

They reached the top of the next flight of steps, and Bilbo assisted in the arduous work of bringing the bass back down a flight of stairs. The rest of the company was far ahead by now, and Bilbo could see the two youngest musicians dangling off the platform, trying to pick something off the tracks, before Thorin yanked them up with a shout.

“Those two babyfaced sops over there are Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili. Their ma sent them over from Scotland for the summer,” Bofur continued with ill-concealed annoyance. “Fili plays guitar, though not half as well as he thinks he does, and Kili’s not bad with a violin, if he’d keep his mouth shut long enough for you to hear the notes.”

“Which is which?”

“Fili’s the one that always looks smug, and Kili’s the one doing his best to imitate his uncle’s beard.” Bofur settled the bass to the ground with a groan. “There’s me, and my panpipes, and you know Gandalf,” he said. “That about does it.”

“What about Thorin?” Bilbo asked. “I mean, what instrument does Thorin play?” Back in Erebor, the man was a jack-of-all-trades, playing whatever instrument the band needed. But the most distinctive thing about him, the thing that had kept Bilbo up some nights, listening to his CDs over and over and over again... it could be entirely gone now, for all he knew. Thorin had changed so much.

“Thorin, well, he manages the rest of us, mostly. He doesn’t play as much as he once did. Still, you stick around long enough, and you’ll hear it.”

Bilbo looked at Thorin, perched at the edge of the subway platform, hair blowing wildly in the wind of the approaching train. “Hear what?” Bilbo asked, not at all breathlessly.

Bofur smiled. “Hear Thorin sing, of course.”

“Move!” Thorin shouted, and Bilbo jerked around with surprise. The company was jostling into the downtown 6 train, moving against the flow of people who decided it was better to choose a car with fewer haphazard musicians. “We’re in a hurry, halfling.”

Bilbo rushed for the crowded car, and Thorin pulled him inside. “You’re to stay out of the way, and not distract the audience,” Thorin said, leaning down over him.

“Yessir, out of the way it is,” Bilbo said, but Thorin had already turned away to address the car.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” he shouted. “We do not play for your money or your pity, but because it suits our pride to do so.” He blew a note on his whistle, and the Company launched into a fairly on-key rendition of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.”

“Wow, Thorin has really got to work on his sales pitch,” Bilbo muttered to no one in particular.

“That’s what we’ve been saying for ages,” Fili said, and Bilbo jumped with surprise. Fili moved past him and Bilbo watched as he and his brother did a lap around the train, somehow managing to play their instruments and pass the hat around at the same time while also winking rakishly at the car’s women (and some of the more attractive men).

The song ended and Fili and Kili circled back around, sorting through the crumpled bills in the hat. They whispered to each other furiously. “Hey, Bilbo!” Kili hissed. “Come over here.”

Fili yanked him close and held the hat in front of him. “You’re an accountant, right, you’re good at maths? Count the take for us.”

Bilbo sighed, and sorted through the piles of bills. “It doesn’t take being good at math to do basic arithmetic, you know.” Bilbo tallied the figure, and checked it again in his head. “twenty-three dollars.”

Fili swore, and Kili banged his head on a nearby pole.

“What is it?”

“We’re short,” Fili moaned. “There was a ten dollar bill in there, and now it’s gone.”

“Uncle Thorin’s gonna murder us,” Kili added. “He’ll chop us into wee little pieces, and feed us to the cockroaches.”

“Now, now, no need to be dramatic, no one is going to die.” Bilbo said. “Is it possible that it fell out on the floor?”

“I dunno, Bilbo, do you see it on the floor anywhere?” Kili snapped. “Besides, if it had, someone would’ve picked it up already.”

“Well, is it possible that someone took it? Out of the hat, while you were passing it around.”

The two brothers looked at each other. “There was that one guy, he stuck his hand in to give a dollar…” Kili said. “That one over there, in the scarf.”

They all turned to the proposed thief, who promptly looked away and started to gather his bag to go.

“Hey, wait!” Fili shouted, but the train jerked to a stop, throwing him off-balance, and the man was out the door. “After him!”

Fili and Kili ran onto the platform after the man, and Bilbo rushed after them. Kili seemed barely 18, and Bilbo couldn’t leave them to run around alone. He heard Thorin shout, “Stop!” but the musicians poured out of the subway car after them.

“We lost him!” Kili shouted to Thorin. “He took our money, and ran off that way…”

Thorin sighed. “All right, I want us searching the station. He may not have left, only switched platforms…”

Bilbo looked around, wishing he had a better impression of what the guy looked like other than “scarf.” He didn’t see him, but he did spot three uniformed cops standing by the nearest map.

“Oh, that’s handy,” Bilbo said, and stepped over to the policemen. “Excuse me, officers? There’s a man, he just came through here, and, he stole ten dollars from us.”

The cops all turned to stare at Bilbo. “He did, huh,” the closest cop said. “How did he get his hands on your money, exactly?”

“Well, we were performing, on the train, and we passed the hat around,” Bilbo started to say, when he felt a hard grip on his arm. It was Thorin. “Asking for money…” He trailed off.

“Asking for money, eh?” The second cop said. He was large and ugly, and had the look of a man who didn’t go into the police force because of his abiding devotion to upholding justice. “Sounds like soliciting to me, Lew.”

“That it does, Benny,” the third cop said, and Thorin’s hand clenched his arm even tighter. “You guys got a permit to play music down here?”

“Ummm…” Bilbo started, but Thorin pulled him back.

“We have no permit. We need no permit,” Thorin spat. “You abuse your powers.”

“You hear that, Bert?” Lew said, and Bilbo watched a cruel smile grow across his face. “He thinks we’re abusing our powers….” He reached towards his back, to pull out a gun or handcuffs, or god knew what.

Bilbo scanned the platform desperately for inspiration, and noticed the board on the ceiling announcing the time until the next train. It was only 2 minutes until the express arrived. He could stall them for that long.

“Wait!” Bilbo said, and everyone turned to him, surprised by his sudden interruption. “They’ve committed more crimes than that.”

“WHAT!” Thorin began to bellow, but Bert said, “Pipe down, the little guy is talking,” and placed his hand menacingly on his baton.

“Yes, yes, so, so many crimes,” Bilbo said. “For instance, I saw this one here drop a candy wrapper on the ground. That’s littering.”

“Littering?” Benny said, clearly unimpressed.

“Yes, littering. And, um…abduction! They grabbed me off the L train, I never wanted to come with them.”

“You lying bastard!” came a call from over Bilbo’s shoulder – it seemed as though the rest of the musicians had gotten involved. “Shibal!” Bifur added, furious and incomprehensible.

“Kidnapping!” Bilbo repeated shrilly, and looked at the sign. Only a minute more, now, and he could almost see the light of the train down the tunnel. “That one there, Bifur, he’s an illegal, and the tall one, in the back,” he said in a significant whisper, gesturing at Gandalf, “I am pretty sure that he’s a drug dealer.”

There was an outcry of horror and objection from the musicians, and Bilbo tried his hardest not to roll his eyes. “Surely, you’ve all committed many, many, more crimes?” Bilbo said, turning to face them, and very slightly jerking his head towards the approaching train. Thorin followed his gaze and his furious scowl dropped in an instant.

“No, of course not!” Oin shouted, but Thorin elbowed him in the side.

“Yes, we are all hardened criminals,” Thorin said.

The company turned to Thorin, aghast, and Thorin, slowly and deliberately, rolled his eyes towards the slowly-approaching train. There was a general “ooooh” of understanding between the musicians.

“I started a bar fight, not three days ago,” Gloin said, hesitant.

“I run a three-card monte racket up on 125th,” Nori added.

“I’m a juvenile delinquent!” Fili shouted.

“Nuh-uh, I’m way more delinquent,” Kili said.

“I stabbed a man, back in ’92,” Dwalin said. “E’s fine now. Still sends me holiday cards.”

The train pulled to a stop at the platform, and the company began shuffling toward it.

“And then there’s me, I suppose,” Bilbo said, sneaking a look over his shoulder. Nori and Ori were through the door, Gloin, Thorin, and Gandalf still behind. “Well, I’ve been known to use the Pirate Bay. Torrents, and that. Movies, music. Never Erebor, though,” he made sure to clarify, loudly. He took another step backwards, and found himself at the edge of the platform.

“Hey, where do you think you guys are going?” Bert growled, and reached out to grab Bilbo.

“Now, Thorin!” Gandalf shouted, and Thorin dragged Bilbo inside the car as Gandalf threw something that went off with a bang and released a terrible amount of smoke. The doors slid shut and the train pulled away, leaving the coughing, dazed cops standing on the platform.

“Did you just throw a bomb at the cops?” Bilbo asked breathlessly, having inhaled a good deal of smoke himself. “Are you insane?”

“No, no, not at all,” Gandalf said. “That was mostly magnesium and incense, nothing that could actually do damage.”

“Is he insane?” Thorin interrupted, pushing Bilbo away from the door. “You’re the one who went to the cops in the first place.”

“I thought they would help,” Bilbo said, “I didn’t think…”

“Well, that is abundantly clear,” Thorin said. “The police are never here to help us. You’d do well to remember that, halfling.”

Thorin turned away to face the startled passengers and blew angrily on his whistle. The Company rushed their instruments into position, and began to play an enthusiastic but misguided rendition of “Gold Digger.”

Bilbo put down his messenger bag and tried to straighten his clothes. “What the hell does ‘halfling’ even mean?” Bilbo muttered.

“Well, that’s kind of hard to explain,” Fili said, plucking the strings of his guitar. “It means kind of…weedy.”

“Wet behind the ears,” Kili added.

“Juvenile.”

“A bit like Ori, really.”

Bilbo looked at the musician in question, who was concentrating very hard on hitting his harmonica against his hand. “Oh,” he said.

“But don’t mind Uncle Thorin, really, he doesn’t mean anything by it,” Fili said. “He’s just touchy about the whole police thing. He’s had some bad experiences, that’s all. There’s this one cop he managed to piss off in the 90’s still shows up to hassle him once in a while.”

“What happened?”

“Thorin spilled coffee on his sleeve. Stained it. He never forgave, never forgot.”

“It’s not a joke, laddie.” Dwalin snapped. “There’s a code with our kind, and it’s there for a reason. No cops. Cops are always trouble we can’t afford.”

“I am sorry,” Bilbo said. “I didn’t know.”

“It’s all right, mate,” Fili said. The song had ended and the group was gathering their instruments to change cars. “We forgive you. Just help carry our stuff around for a bit. You can start with my guitar.” He handed it to Bilbo, who nearly dropped the sudden weight.

“And my bow,” Kili said, balancing it on top of the guitar.

“And my sax,” Gloin said.

 

***

 

They made it the rest of the way down to Brooklyn Bridge – City Hall without a fuss, and it took until they were leaving the train for a very obvious question to occur to Bilbo.

“Gandalf, why are we down at Wall Street when Thorin’s trying to get to Times Square?”

Gandalf looked at Bilbo and nodded sagely, which, to be fair, was how he responded to most things. “Because, Mister Baggins, Thorin must consult with Elrond before he continues.”

“Who is Elrond?” Bilbo started to say, but he was interrupted when Thorin jerked to a stop ahead of him and Bilbo ran headlong into his back.

“Elrond?” Thorin growled. “You did not tell me that it was Elrond we sought.”

Gandalf sighed. “Thorin, if you need to ask someone about MTA rules and regulations, Elrond’s the person to talk to.”

“I would rather see my company dead and my bones devoured by subway rats before turning to Elrond for help.”

“Excuse me?” Bofur said.

“Thorin, we’re already in the station,” Gandalf said, making an admirable effort not to roll his eyes. “It would be a waste not to stop by.”

Thorin grumbled, but Gandalf took advantage of his inarticulate resistance to usher him up the stairs and down the station.

“Why doesn’t Thorin like Elrond?” Bilbo asked.

“Thorin’s not overly fond of the MTA,” Fili said. “Or authority in general, really.”

“Which is ironic, considering all he ever does is boss us around,” Kili added.

Gandalf stopped in front of a door that read MTA OFFICE, but was largely covered with an ad for the local Riven Deli. He knocked, but there was no response.

“Well, I guess he’s not in,” Thorin said, and turned to go, but the door swung open. Elrond was a tall, thin man with a large forehead and prominent eyebrows.

“Ah, Gandalf!” he said, smiling with easy cheer and grasping him on the arm. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“And you, Elrond.” Gandalf said.

“And this must be Thorin Oakenstein,” Elrond said, turning to Thorin, who visibly bristled. “I’ve heard so much about you and your interesting line of work. It must be so quaint, riding the rails, playing your little songs, bringing a little humor to everyone’s day. It really does give the trains character.”

Thorin opened his mouth to speak, but Gandalf wisely cut him off. “May we come inside, Elrond? We’re taking up a bit of the hallway.”

“Oh, of course, where are my manners,” Elrond said, beckoning them through the door. “Please, come in, we have some snacks, if you’re interested.”

“Snacks?” Gloin said, perking up immediately. “Do you have any coffee?”

“I’m afraid not,” Elrond said kindly. “Caffeine is really just terrible for you, you know. But we have lots of calming herbal tea.”

“Oh, never mind then.”

The rest of the musicians went about the process of making themselves at home in the small two-room office, and Gandalf drew Thorin and Elrond aside to the desk. Bilbo helped himself to a tea and wandered over to join them.

“I’m afraid there isn’t much to be done,” Elrond said. “Technically, the performance areas of the station are all first come, first serve. Still, it could be worse, there are still plenty of trains out there for you to play on,” he added, putting an entirely unwelcome hand on Thorin’s shoulder. “You’ve learned a valuable lesson, and there’s not really anything more to be done.”

“Yes. Nothing more to be done,” Thorin said.

“Before we go, could you take a look at something for us?” Gandalf said. “Thorin, show him your map.”

With great reluctance, Thorin reached into his pocket and pulled out a battered and dirty piece of paper. Elrond took it gingerly between his fingertips, and unfolded it.

“This is a map?”

“It’s a subway map,” Thorin said.

“This still has the W train on it,” Elrond asked, squinting at the faded writing. He turned his desk light on, and laid the map out underneath it. “How old is this thing?”

“I have used the same map since I first came to the city,” Thorin said, crossing his arms in front of him. “I do not approve of waste.”

“Thorin, you came to the city in 1997,” said Gandalf.

“What of it?”

Elrond sighed, and ran his hand over the paper. “I can read the map well enough, if you tell me what you need.”

“We need directions,” Gandalf said. “To Times Square.”

Elrond narrowed his eyes, but did not comment. “That’s a simple enough trip. Just take the 6 back the way you came, and switch to the uptown N or R at 14th. But tell me, why….”

“Well, if you would believe the time,” Gandalf said, pulling Thorin up with him. “We had best be off. Thank you again, my friend.”

“It was nothing,” Elrond said. “But promise me, Gandalf, that you won’t do anything illegal.”

Bilbo stared at Elrond, and wondered if he had any idea what Gandalf did for a living.

“Of course not,” Gandalf said, and began ushering the hordes of musicians out the door. “Oin, Gloin, Balin… where’s Dwalin?”

“Coming, coming,” Dwalin said. “Just using the bathroom.” He hurried out of the office and gathered with the rest of the company in the station hall.

“Now we are regrouped, let us away,” Thorin said. “We have never been closer to achieving our goal.”

Gandalf shook his head. “I’m afraid that I won’t be coming with you.”

“What?” Bilbo and Thorin said, at the same time.

“You cannot leave us now,” Thorin said.

“You can’t leave me with him,” Bilbo said.

“Now, it’s not permanent,” Gandalf said. “I’ll meet you at Herald Square, don’t fear. But I have things to get done.”

“Fine,” Thorin snorted. “Go. We do not need your assistance.”

“Thank you for your help, though,” Ori said. “It’s very nice of you.”

“So long!” Gandalf said, waved a jaunty goodbye, and walked away. Bilbo fought the urge to chase after him. He didn’t have any idea what he was still doing there.

“Time to be going,” Thorin said, flipping his long hair away from his face with a jerk of his head. “Back to the train, everyone.”

Bilbo sighed. Now would be the best time to make his escape. They might not even notice.

“Oi, Bilbo,” Kili said, and Bilbo jumped and wondered if the skinny teenager could read minds somehow. “It’s bad form to stand in the walkway blocking traffic, even I know that.”

Bilbo sighed, and followed the musicians back through the tunnel and down the stairs. He found himself in step with the oldest of the group, who seemed to have no trouble keeping up with the others.

“Erm, it’s Balin, isn’t it?” Bilbo asked.

“Indeed it is,” Balin said with a smile, and held out his hand. “I don’t think we’ve officially met.”

Bilbo took his hand and shook. “It’s a pleasure.” The moment continued in an uncomfortable silence, until Bilbo cast his mind about desperately for a conversation topic. “So, Bofur mentioned that you’ve been working together with Thorin for years now.”

“That’s true.”

“So,” Bilbo fumbled. “I mean, how. I mean, Thorin, he had a band, once. A proper band. Not that this isn’t great and all,” he hastily amended.

Balin nodded. “You mean, how did Thorin go from being a rising star of a popular rock group to playing for spare change on the subway?”

“I wouldn’t have phrased it exactly like that…” Bilbo muttered.

“It’s not an absurd question to have,” Balin said with a smile.

“Thorin was brilliant back then,” Bilbo said. “I saw him perform, I’ve never seen anyone move, anyone sing like that. It was…” Bilbo cast his mind around for a word that wasn’t as incredibly homosexual as majestic. “I mean, I thought it was just a matter of time until talent like his got recognized.”

“That was never the problem, Thorin always attracted attention,” Balin said. “Too much attention, at that, and from the wrong types of people. People who wanted to take advantage. Dragons are drawn to gold, they say.”

Bilbo had never heard “they” say any such thing, but he figured it was a Britishism.

“They were working on a second album, Arkenstone. Thorin was consumed; he spent all his time on it. It was masterful work, but he started to feel…entitled.” Balin paused, as though he was embarrassed to have to speak less than glowingly about Thorin. “He tried to renegotiate his contract, get more creative control and a bigger piece of the profits. The other band members were furious, and they kicked him out.

“He could’ve gone back, apologized, mended fences. But he was angry and proud, so he left for the States. Dwalin was already living here, so I came over too. They started playing together in the park, and it just sort of kept growing. It’s been like this ever since.”

“Enough chatter,” Thorin growled, and Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin. Thorin was like a stealthy bearded ninja. “The train has arrived.”

From City Hall to Canal, they performed a Led Zepplin medley, and from Canal to Spring they switched cars and sang an Imagine Dragons song. But the crowd was thin and unresponsive, and the train jerked to a halt well before Astor.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are being held momentarily due to train traffic ahead of us,” the crackling voice on the speaker said. “This train will be … stops. … street, Union…” the voice continued, nigh incomprehensibly.

The musicians all let out a moan.

“Enough, there is no use complaining,” Thorin said and held up his hand. “We’ll move into the next car and perform there.”

There was another loud moan.

“Come now, no wasting time,” Thorin said, and pulled apart the emergency travel doors between the cars. Bilbo took a step back – walking between cars was decidedly dangerous, even without the trains moving.

“It’s not bad at all, really,” Nori said, and marched through the doors. He carried his keyboard with one hand and kept the other on the metal handrail, and slid open the doors to the next car. “Piece of cake.”

Dori followed him through and soon the rest of the musicians were through. Fili handed his guitar over to Bilbo again and helped Ori carry Bombur’s bass. Soon, Bilbo and Thorin were the only ones left.

“After you, halfling,” Thorin said, and the anger at the insult was enough to spur Bilbo forward.

The metal platform was short, and not intimidating at all, Bilbo thought, as he stepped from the first section to the second. But then the train lurched forward and Bilbo slipped, foot catching in the gap between sections and he was falling, flailing the guitar as he went over the side…

He felt a rough arm grab his back, and another take hold of the guitar. Bilbo felt weak with relief.

“Thanks,” Bilbo started to say, but Thorin pushed him forward.

“Get into the next car.”

Bilbo pulled the door open and moved in, and Thorin was behind him an instant later.

“You fool!” Thorin grabbed the guitar away from him and thrust it towards Fili. “You nearly dropped the guitar over the side!”

“Well, how was I supposed to know that the train was starting up again?” Bilbo said. “I nearly fell over the side myself, and all because you were too impatient to wait until the next stop!”

“I didn’t expect anyone to fail at something as simple as walking in a straight line,” Thorin snapped. “I suppose that I must lower my estimation of you even further, halfling.”

“Um, Thorin,” Bofur started to say, but Bilbo kept talking.

“Stop calling me halfling! I know what it means, Fili told me. I’m only trying to help.”

“Thorin, really…” Bofur said again, but Thorin shook him off.

“Trying to help? If this is helping to you, I’d hate to see you as a hindrance,” Thorin said. “You have no place among us.”

“I don’t think I want a place among you, now that I’ve heard about how you treat your companions.” Bilbo said. “Trying to get a bigger share of the profits, at the cost of your band? Such a classy move.”

Thorin was too surprised to respond, and Bofur took advantage of the situation.

“Thorin!”

“What!” Thorin said, wheeling around, and stopped dead. Bilbo followed his gaze. In the heat of their argument, they had failed to notice that they had entered into a car full of roiling, shrieking, terrifying…

“Middle schoolers,” Thorin said, softly, as though he were locked in a tiger cage. “Everyone, back through the door, quickly…”

“What’re you doing?” came a loud, piercing voice, and Bilbo froze. A middle school girl, eyes narrowed and teeth gleaming with braces, came towards them. “You running away?”

“Where’s Gandalf when you need him?” Bilbo muttered.

“I’m sure he’s involved in something very important,” Gloin said.

 

***

 

“I’m telling you, Gandalf,” Radagast the Brown said, taking another hit from his curled and elaborate bong. “Sometimes my hedgehog talks to me.”

Gandalf pulled the bong towards himself. “I think you’d better lay off the mushrooms for a bit, buddy.”

 

***

 

The girl tilted her hair, filling the air with the ominous clacking of hairclips, and narrowed her inexpertly made-up eyes.

“We are running nowhere,” Thorin snarled at the girl. “We are musicians.”

“Looks like some shitty fucking musicians,” a boy said, his horrible face mottled by sores and acne scars.

“Language!” Oin said, aghast, but the boy only laughed. A second girl pulled herself up on the handrails, pulled the hearing aid from Oin’s ear, and swung away.

“Look, he uses a hearing aid,” the girl said, dangling it between her sparkling green fingernails. “They must really suck, if they’re all deaf.”

“Give that back!” Thorin snapped, and started towards the kid, who threw it across the car to another girl, whose haughty sneer was accented by the bright blue rubber bands of her braces.

“How dare you…” Thorin started, and Bilbo had a vision of Thorin actually getting into a fistfight with a group of twelve-year-olds. He stepped in front of Thorin.

“Wait, wait, let’s all act like adults, here,” Bilbo said. “How about we play some music for you, and then you kindly return the hearing aid to my friend?”

“What’s the point of that?” the first girl said. “You probably just play shitty old people things.”

“Not true!” Bilbo said. “We are in fact, very young. And…hip.”

The girl gave them a once over, raised an eyebrow, and shrugged. “What can you play, then?”

“Oh, lots of things…” Bilbo said, wishing he could remember anything the band could play.

“Play One Direction!” a girl shouted from the back. There was a chorus of groans from the few boys on the train, but the frenzied cheers of the girls overwhelmed them.

“Yeah, play One Direction, then,” the girl said.

“Um…” Bilbo said, and turned to the musicians. “Anyone?”

Thorin’s raised his eyebrows in confusion. “I have no memory of this band,” Thorin said.

“You don’t even know One Direction?” said the girl who had stolen the hearing aid. “What good are you, then?”

“No, no, we know them, totally,” Bilbo said. “How about What Makes You Beautiful?”

“All right,” the girl said, and Bilbo turned back to the musicians.

“Are you completely mental?” Kili whispered. “We don’t know anything about One Direction.”

“Well, you’re lucky, because I know a bit,” Bilbo said.

“A bit?” Bombur asked.

“Maybe all the lyrics to What Makes You Beautiful,” Bilbo said, blushing. “But only that one song!”

“Sure,” Bofur said.

“Look, I’ll start singing, you all try to follow my lead,” Bilbo said, looking between the musicians desperately. “You can try to pick up the chorus too, it’s not hard. You can do that, right?” He turned to Thorin, who was looking at him with a strange, measured expression. Bilbo felt a twinge of guilt, and hoped that Thorin hadn’t taken his earlier words to heart.

“We can manage that,” Thorin said. “Hand me the guitar, Fili. I have more experience improvising.”

Fili handed his guitar over without hesitation. Thorin slid the strap over his neck, and took a moment to adjust the pegs. “We follow you,” he said with a nod.

Bilbo turned back to the middle schoolers, who had ceased their animalistic shrieking and fighting and were all eyeing the musicians in a way that made Bilbo think of wolves hunting rabbits.

“You’re insecure, don’t know what for,” Bilbo started, and was appalled to hear his voice crack. A few of the girls giggled.

“You’re turning heads when you walk through the do-o-or,” he continued, and tried not to make eye contact with any of the surrounding twelve-year-olds. The only thing left to make this day any worse was being brought up on pedophilia charges.

“Don’t need make-up, to cover up, being the way that you are is enough.” The basic pattern established, Thorin began to accompany him on the guitar. Bilbo was slightly relieved at the thought that if he forgot the words, Thorin could just play over him.

“Everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but you…” he sang, and took a deep breath for the chorus.

“Baby you light up my world like nobody else, the way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed—“ (Bilbo tried very, very hard not to look at Thorin.) “But when you smile at the ground it ain’t hard to tell—you don’t kno-o-ow, you don’t know you’re beautiful.”

The bass, trumpet and keyboard all came in, joining Thorin’s guitar. Bilbo scanned the faces of the crowd. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it looked like they were enjoying themselves, but they certainly looked like they were further from committing homicide.

“If only you saw what I can see, you’d understand why I want you so desperately, right now I’m looking at you and I can’t believe you don’t know, oh, oh…”

“You’re doing fine,” Thorin whispered in Bilbo’s ear, and joined in too. His voice was as low and deep and resonant as it had been the day twelve years ago when a friend had handed Bilbo a pair of headphones and said, “They’re called Erebor, they’re not bad,” and Bilbo hadn’t even heard him say it because there was something in that voice that went straight to his very insides, and it still did even when he was singing One Direction. And like a switch had been flipped, Bilbo realized that he was doing fine, that everything was going to be all right, and that middle schoolers were basically only tiny hormonal humans anyways.

“…You don’t know you’re beautiful.”

Bilbo kept singing, and the rest of the musicians chimed in on the chorus, uncomplicated as it was. Fili grabbed Ori’s tambourine and he and Kili sauntered down the aisle, singing vaguely along and pausing from playing their instruments to wink at girls till they blushed.

Bilbo started on the “na na nas” and soon the train was clapping along, and Balin was moving through the car behind Fili and Kili, collecting a healthy pile of allowance money from the audience. The train groaned to a halt at 14th street, and the company poured out of the train car.

“Thanks for the song, weirdoes,” the girl called after them, and tossed Bilbo the hearing aid as the door slid closed.

Bilbo passed the aid back to Oin as Bofur pounded him on the back.

“Not bad at all, Bilbo.”

“Mint egy tizenéves fiú,” said Bifur, enthused.

“We made a ton!” Dori said, digging through the hatful of cash. “Who knew teenagers had this much pocket money?”

“Thank god Bilbo is such an enormous girl,” Kili said and poked his elbow into Bilbo’s side, but it was in an affectionate way and Bilbo was far too flushed with success to be bothered.

“Well, it wasn’t all me,” Bilbo said. “You all were great backup, really. And Thorin’s a much better singer than I am.”

“It was more your work than mine,” Thorin said. “But we have to head to the R.” He handed the guitar back to Fili and walked up the stairs without a second glance back at Bilbo.

Bilbo took his position at the back of the crowd with Bofur.

“You don’t suppose he’s still angry at me, is he?” Bilbo asked.

“What? What cause would he have to be angry, when you called him greedy and selfish in front of his own band…”

“I never actually called him greedy,” Bilbo grumbled. “But it was out of line, I know.”

“I think it was good for him to hear,” Bofur said. “We tend to put up with a lot from Thorin. It’s good to bring him down to earth, remind him that other people have feelings too.”

“It’s not like…I wasn’t throwing a tantrum, or something.”

“No, no, Thorin was being a jackass, no question about it. But he’s really quite—Oh, balls.” Bofur cut off and started to run for the stairs.

“What is it?” Bilbo asked, struggling to keep up with the taller man.

“Train’s here,” Bofur huffed, and sure enough, Bilbo could see the R pull into the station. The rest of the musicians were hurrying down the stairs, and he could see Thorin holding the door open for them. He picked up the pace.

“Hurry up, Bilbo,” Bofur said, and Bilbo stumbled on the stairs as Bofur slid in through the doors.

“Hey buddy, you can’t hold the doors open,” the conductor said, sticking his head out the window.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Bilbo called, but the conductor shouted, “Hey!” and Thorin pulled his hand back. The doors slid shut.

“Bilbo!” Bofur shouted. “Take the next train to Herald Square!”

“We’ll wait for you there!” Kili added, or that’s what Bilbo thought he said—his voice was lost in the roar of the train as it pulled away, leaving Bilbo alone on the platform.

It was well past midnight now, and the station was deserted. It was uncommon, and unsettling, to find a place in the city deserted, and far too I Am Legend for Bilbo’s tastes. At once, he wished for the company of loud and obnoxious musicians. Instead, he settled down on the side of one of the double-sided benches not covered in piles of trash and opened his book.

Now would be a perfect time to run off, of course. No one could stop him, and no one would blame him, really. It was late, and creepy, and probably unsafe, to be waiting for a train all alone. And Thorin hadn’t said anything as the train had pulled away, hadn’t even looked at him – he didn’t even expect Bilbo to follow him.

Well damn Thorin, and damn his doubts. Bilbo was going to make it up to him, whether Thorin actually wanted him to or not.

His book, largely forgotten, shifted on his lap and his bookmark slid out. “Damn,” Bilbo muttered, and bent down to look for it, but it was nowhere to be found. Bilbo did notice an abandoned MetroCard underneath the bench, one of dozens abandoned in the subway, no doubt. But this one was misprinted. Instead of yellow with blue lettering, it was golden, all over. Bilbo picked it up and stuck it in his book. It would work as a bookmark, at the very least.

“What is it reading, precious?” came a raspy voice from behind Bilbo, and he hurled himself out of his seat with a yelp. What Bilbo had taken for a trash pile was a homeless man, stick-skinny and pale, camouflaged in rags and trash bags.

“I’m reading nothing, it’s nothing,” Bilbo said, putting his book away and trying to bring his voice down a few octaves. “I didn’t see you there, sorry.”

“It didn’t see us, and we aren’t even invisible, precious,” the man muttered to himself, and began a round of harsh guttural coughing.

“Yes, well, sorry?” Bilbo repeated, and backed away. He was conscious, once again, of the lack of witnesses on the platform. “I’ll just leave, now, be out of your, erm, hair.”

“It wants to leave us, it doesn’t want to plaaaaaaaay,” the man wailed, loud enough for the sound to rebound and multiply through the station.

“No, no, don’t do…that, I’ll play,” Bilbo said. “What do you want to play, then?”

“A game of riddles,” the man said gleefully, and Bilbo found himself reminded of the Saw films.

“Okay, riddles, I can do that,” Bilbo said. “My name’s Bilbo, by the way. Bilbo Baggins. And you?”

“His name is Gollum, precious, and my name is Smeagol.”

“Ah, well. That sounds promising,” Bilbo said. “Let’s do riddles, then.”

“I’ll start, I’ll start!” Gollum said, hopping with excitement. “What has roots as nobody sees, is taller than trees; up, up it goes, and yet never grows?”

“Oh hell, I am terrible at riddles,” Bilbo said. “Um, a skyscraper?”

“The Bagginses is right,” Gollum said, sounding very put out. “Now you do one!”

“Oh, well, okay.” Bilbo wrinkled his nose and looked at the ceiling. “Riddles, riddles, ah! Okay, here’s one.”

He leaned forward, and asked triumphantly, “What’s brown and sticky?”

“A stick,” Gollum said, without hesitation. “And that’s not a very good riddle, precious, if the Bagginses is bad at riddles, we’ll push it into the train tracks.”

“Wow, okay then,” Bilbo said, backing away from the edge of the platform, and putting a wall against his back. “How about you, then? Your turn.”

“They uses the subway but never pay fares, can play on the tracks and the copses don’t care.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo took a moment to consider, and stared at the subway tracks for inspiration. “Plays on the tracks… oh! A rat! Rats!”

“Right again,” Gollum wailed. “Another, another.”

“All right,” Bilbo said. “What’s black and white and read all over?”

Gollum paused, chewing his bottom lip with ruined teeth. Then he narrowed his eyes. “A newspaper?”

“You got it!”

“I asked Bagginses not to do stupid riddles, didn’t I, precious,” Gollum muttered. “Mine are much better, much tricksier.”

“Well, I’m not arguing with you there,” Bilbo said. “It’s your turn.” He kept his back firmly against the wall.

“Two rulers across the river, sitting side by side. One’s got rides that make you shiver, in the other, dead reside.”

Bilbo paused to think. This was a tricky one. “Oh, I get it. It’s Queens and Brooklyn. Brooklyn’s official name is Kings County, and it’s got Coney Island and the Cyclone and all the rides there. Queens is the one where the dead reside, since it’s full of cemeteries.”

“Good, clever,” Gollum said. “Now another riddle for Gollum, precious.”

“Um,” Bilbo said, his well of crappy dad riddles running dry. He took a step away from the wall, and found his foot embedded in some mysterious and sticky substance. “Ugh, what did I step in?”

“What did you step in, that’s a terrible riddle, precious,” Gollum said.

“Oh, okay, that’s my riddle,” Bilbo said. “I thought you were good at this.”

“Can I see it, can I see your foot, precious?” Gollum said. “And I need three guesses.”

Bilbo nodded, and Gollum scurried over to examine the sticky black splotch.

“Is it…vomit?” Gollum asked.

“Nope.”

“Poop?”

“I sincerely hope not.”

Gollum hopped from foot to foot, and leaned his face against the platform.

“Is it…gum?” He asked.

“I’m afraid not,” Bilbo said. “As far as I can tell, it’s chewing tobacco.”

Gollum wailed again, rolling around on the platform in despair. “Noooo, precious, nooo,” he cried, and reached into the pocket of his ragged coat.

“Well, that was fun,” Bilbo said, and tilted his head out to look for an uptown train. He had never wanted to see one so desperately in his life. “Let’s call it a draw, if you like.”

Gollum removed his hand from his pocket, and his expression changed. “Where did my precious go?”

“I have no idea,” Bilbo said, but for some reason, his mind went back to the irregular MetroCard he found, and he held his book closer to his chest.

“He stole it, lying, tricksy Baggins stole the precious!” Gollum shouted, his voice almost inhuman with rage.

“Um, no I didn’t?” Bilbo said. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” A downtown train pulled towards the station, and Bilbo inched away from the edge of the platform. He had a vivid mental image of what would happen to him if Gollum pushed him, right now, onto the tracks.

The train screeched to a stop and Bilbo jumped for the nearest car, but Gollum blocked his path, hands curled and jagged, yellow teeth bared. Bilbo turned back and ran for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He could hear Gollum behind him, clattering up the steps, but couldn’t stop to look. Bilbo cursed whatever engineer had decided to make the stations so far underground.

Bilbo hurled himself up the last step towards the open floor of the station. A hand grabbed his ankle, surprisingly strong, and Bilbo hit the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth.

“Give it to us, precious,” Gollum hissed. One bony hand held Bilbo’s ankle like a vice, while the other tugged on a piece of metal railing, trying to pull it free. Bilbo twisted and struggled, and the railing snapped out of place, leaving Gollum with a metal bar that he raised high, face wild with rage.

Bilbo kicked him in it as hard as he could, and sent him tumbling down the stairs. Bilbo stumbled to his feet and ran towards the turnstiles at the end of the open station, Gollum’s howls following him out of the station, up the stairs, and into the cool autumn night.

Bilbo hurled himself into the nearest cab, barely bothering to check the lights to see if it was unoccupied. He lay panting in the backseat, catching his breath, until the cabbie asked:

“Where you headed?”

“Herald Square,” Bilbo wheezed out, and rolled up the window. “And quickly, please.”

“Good thing I never told him where I live,” Bilbo muttered to himself, leaned back to watch the city slide by past his window, and took out his book. He wasn’t sure what the big deal with the MetroCard was anyway. Even if it was an Unlimited, it wasn’t worth the fuss. It certainly made a very handy bookmark, however.

It wasn’t until they had made their way up to 28th that Bilbo realized he hadn’t even considered asking the cabbie to take him home.

 

***

 

“Thanks for the ride,” Bilbo said, and offered the cabbie a rather generous tip before getting out and heading down into the subway station. Even this late it was full of people, stumbling to the next bar or heading home from Madison Square Garden. The turnstiles were crowded, and Bilbo checked his pockets to get his MetroCard at the ready. Except, it was nowhere to be found.

Bilbo groaned – he had put ten dollars on it this morning, and waiting at the machine for a new one was such a pain. He had almost resigned himself to it when he recalled the gold MetroCard stuck in his book. Saving his place with a finger, Bilbo slipped out the card and slid it through the reader on the turnstile.

“GO,” it read, as usual, but it did not flash the amount of money remaining or the expiration date. Instead, it flashed an odd red circle with a yellow dot in the center. Bilbo tried the turnstile, and went through fine. He slipped the card back in his book. No need to look a gift horse in the mouth.

In the bustle of the station, Bilbo realized that Thorin was actually irritatingly short, and that it was very difficult to find him in a crowd. But he perked up at the sight of Gandalf’s battered blue hat, and began to work his way through the crowd to the benches at the far wall.

“He’s not coming,” Thorin rumbled. Bilbo could recognize it anywhere.

“He could be on the next train,” someone said. Bilbo thought it was Bofur. It was hard to see the group through the crowd, but he kept moving towards Gandalf. “Maybe he caught the local, not the express.”

“We’ve waited long enough,” Thorin said. “This was never the halfling’s quest. He’s gone.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Bilbo said, stepping through the crowd. “This time of night, train service gets so spotty, you know how it is.”

“Bilbo!” Bofur said, pleased, and the musicians moved forward to pat him on the back or ruffle his hair.

“Thanks for coming back, I was dreading thought of carrying my own guitar,” Fili said.

“And quick-thinking with the middle schoolers, really,” Dori said. “We made thirty-six dollars in a single car! That’s a new record!”

“Good to see you again, Bilbo,” Gandalf said, bending down to grab him by the shoulder. “I stopped at Chipotle and bought burritos for the group, there’s a carnitas one for you in the bag.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo said.

“So, Mister Baggins, you’ve returned after all,” Thorin said, holding out the bag of burritos.

“Yes, well…” Bilbo said, and pulled his burrito from the bag. “I wanted to apologize, for what I said before. And I want to help you with the rest of the quest. Because… it’s important to you. All of you.” Bilbo stumbled to an awkward pause, and turned his attention to unwrapping his burrito. “And it’s important to support the arts, really. I’ve got a membership at the MoMA.”

Thorin seemed to consider this, and nodded. “Let’s move, then.”

Bilbo took a delicious bite of his burrito and was swept along by the musicians.

“Only one more stop on the N, and we’re there,” Kili said, pounding Bilbo on the back. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?”

“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Kili,” Dwalin said. “You never know what might happen between here and there.”

“Come now, no need to be pessimistic,” Bilbo said. “It’s been such a strange night, I’m sure the worst is behind us.”

Bilbo walked face-first into a cop.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry,” Bilbo stammered. For a moment, he panicked, thinking that the three thugs from Union Square had caught up to them, but this cop and his friends were new. The one he had walked into was pale and tall and built like a tank, with one of those strange muscular necks that Bilbo was never entirely convinced were physically possible outside of the movies.

“Well, what have we here,” the cop said. “You’re not still playing music, are you, Thorin?”

Thorin froze at the sound of the policeman’s voice.

“Azog.”

“That’s Captain Azog, to you,” the cop said, and Bilbo glanced at the sleeve of the man’s uniform; it did seem somewhat discolored. “I’ve been moving up in the world. Can’t say the same for you.”

Azog’s pack of cops sniggered, and Bilbo could feel the rest of the musicians bristling in Thorin’s defense. Kili took a step forward, undoubtedly to do something foolish, but Dwalin held him back.

“Say what you will, Azog,” Thorin said, grim and resigned. “I have no time for your little games.”

“No time? I can’t imagine that you’re busy, so long out of work,” Azog said. “Who can you possibly play for, this time of night? Even the drunks can’t stand your wailing, but if you stay out a little longer, the heroin addicts might stomach it.”

Thorin stepped forward. “Listen here, you cowardly, fascist, son of a—”

“Careful, Thorin,” Azog said. “I wouldn’t want to write you up for disturbing the peace, assaulting an officer, and not to mention soliciting….” He grinned, showing too many teeth.

Dwalin growled, and Bofur started to say, “That is absolute bull—” when Azog cut them off.

“Keep that up, and you’ll be sharing a cell next to him,” Azog snapped. “I don’t recognize that accent, either, so I can check to see if your visa is in order too.”

“Bofur, stop,” Thorin said. “He’s not worth the trouble.”

Thorin stopped talking, and Azog continued. “It might do better to put you in jail. That way you could sell your story to VH1, at least. The one-hit-wonder, decrepit and half-homeless in the subway system, begging for change like a performing monkey.”

The words seemed to strike Thorin like a physical blow. He took a step backwards into Dwalin, who grabbed his shoulder.

“Hey,” Bilbo said, and to his surprise, realized that he was furious. “You’re a liar, and a bully, and you’ve got a lot of nerve insulting someone’s job when you’ve got nothing better to do than stand around and call people names like a child on the playground.”

He paused, aghast. He had never done anything remotely like that before.

“Excuse me?” Azog said, his expression a mix of bemused shock and condescending amusement. It was enough to make Bilbo furious all over again. His hands curled into fists, and he remembered the burrito still clenched in his hand.

“Oh, fuck you,” Bilbo said, and threw the burrito at Azog’s head.

It was a direct hit; the burrito burst open, covering the side of his face with a gooey mixture of sour cream, guacamole, and beans that quickly dripped down to cover his shirt. There was a moment of strained, confounded silence.

“Oh, shit,” Gandalf said, and threw open his coat. A good half-dozen pigeons burst forth and flew for Azog’s head.

“Fly, you fools!” Gandalf shouted, and Bilbo thought he was talking to the birds for a second, before he was swept up in the stampeding horde of musicians running towards the stairs.

“What train do we need?” Bilbo asked, as Gloin dragged him along.

“Whatever train’s closest!” Gloin said, and practically tossed him down a flight of stairs.

Bilbo tumbled to a stop at the bottom, and Fili and Kili each grabbed an arm and pulled him onto a train car. He fell forward and the three collapsed in a pile as the door swung shut behind them.

“Is everyone on?” Gandalf said, walking through the musicians and counting off on his hands. “Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Gloin, Dori, Nori and Ori…”

“Can you only keep track of us by matching up the ones whose names rhyme?” Fili asked. “Gandalf, you’ve known us for years.”

“Honestly, Fili, there are nearly a dozen of you,” Gandalf snapped, and pulled Bilbo to his feet.

“What were you thinking?” Bilbo turned at the question, and found himself face-to-face with Thorin. “Are you mad, attacking an officer of the law? You could have been arrested. You could have been shot!”

“I…well…” Bilbo said, completely out of sorts.

“It was the most reckless, foolhardy act that I have ever witnessed,” Thorin continued, cutting through his stammering. “It was dangerous and entirely unnecessary.”

He paused, and Bilbo felt his heart sink to the bottom of his chest. Perhaps it had been foolish to think that Thorin would ever feel anything for him, besides disdain.

“But it was a very brave deed, my friend, and I thank you for it.” Thorin continued, and he stepped forward and swept Bilbo up into a hug. Bilbo was too shocked to take much in, but Thorin’s arms were thick and strong, and his hair smelled like sweat and Old Spice.

“Still, I do not recommend that you make a habit of provoking armed lunatics,” Thorin said, and pulled away. Bilbo continued to gawk.

“Temporary lapse of sanity,” Bilbo said, once he could get his brain to do anything but play Thorin hugged me on a loop. “Waste of a good burrito, too.”

Gandalf laughed, and the rest of the musicians surged forward, patting him on the back and ruffling his hair. Bifur said something that sounded like “zdaj poljubi” and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Did anyone happen to notice what train we got on?” Bilbo asked.

“This appears to be an Queens-bound M train,” Oin said, peering at the list of upcoming stops.

“Queens? What are we going to do in Queens?” Bilbo moaned.

“I suggest we see this as an opportunity to get some sleep,” Gandalf said. “It’s probably for the best that we don’t return to Manhattan tonight, anyway. Give things time to blow over.”

“Very well, we rest here for the night,” Thorin said, and the musicians dispersed throughout the car. Bilbo settled down into a short bench by the conductor’s cabin, and watched the other musicians settle down for the night. Oin and Balin, the senior members of the company, were given a bench to themselves, and Fili and Kili very valiantly gave up their coats for extra padding. Nori propped himself at the end of his row so he could sleep without flattening the massive bulk of his hairdo, Dori next to him and Ori curled up at his side. Fili and Kili fought over space on the long bench next to Bilbo – until Dwalin kicked them both out and they settled, mumbling curses, on the floor.

Thorin claimed the bench across from Bilbo, rolled his pack into a pillow and slid off his long coat for a blanket with ease and practice that suggested that he had done this many times before.

“Goodnight, halfling,” Thorin said, and Bilbo blushed, hoping he hadn’t been staring too badly.

“Goodnight, Thorin,” Bilbo said, and shut his eyes. It was not the most comfortable place Bilbo had ever slept, but the rocking of the train was rather soothing, and halfling wasn’t so bad a nickname, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for the positive feedback, everyone! I am in the process of writing a part 2, based on the second film.
> 
> Also, I received some really amazing fanart by funkypunkr and Lolarus:
> 
> http://hatsnboots.tumblr.com/post/43054463949/funkypunkr-times-square-and-back-again-this
> 
> http://imgur.com/qaVLpLf


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